


The Obligatory Peter Parker Field Trip, with a Twist

by PrinterInkk



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bullying, Canon Compliant, Canon Related, Domestic Avengers, Field Trip, Flash Thompson Being A Jerk, Gen, No Slash, Parent Pepper Potts, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker's Field Trip to Stark Industries, Protective Pepper Potts, Ship whoever you want that's fine, Sick Character, Sick Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, sic fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:54:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24054742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinterInkk/pseuds/PrinterInkk
Summary: By the time Peter had processed that, no, his Decathlon Team was not standing on the ceiling, and yes, they were, in fact, real and looking at him in his Avengers pyjamas, he still hadn't gotten any further in exactly what to do about it.orBeing sick sucks, but being sick the day your class makes a trip to the one and only Stark Industries? That's so much worse.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Peter Parker, Pepper Potts & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Michelle Jones, Peter Parker & Ned Leeds, Peter Parker & Pepper Potts, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 21
Kudos: 1229
Collections: Peter Parker’s Field Trip Fics, peter parker and his field trips





	The Obligatory Peter Parker Field Trip, with a Twist

**Author's Note:**

> Word Count: 2279

**Sick Day, Trip Day**

Peter groaned. It was an abhorrent noise, loud and raspy and cracking against the back of his throat in a way that got him spluttering to sit up.

The blankets that swaddled him wrapped too tightly yet too loose at the same time.

He stumbled on his first step across the floor. Not particularly his usual level of grace and elegance, but who was he kidding, that had been low, to begin with. He did not need to be swimming around his room half-conscious to know that.

“Mr Parker, may I suggest you return to your bed? Your temperature is running high. I have informed the relevant supervision.”

Peter paused.

That was a bad idea. Nausea hit him the moment he stopped. It sent him half stumbling around, in what felt like every direction _but_ the bed or the toilet, until his knees hit what could have been tile, and his cheek followed.

Was he going to be sick? Likely.

Was he going to do anything about it? Unlikely.

"Peter?" The voice came as an echo in his ear. It was familiar, distinctly feminine.

On any other morning, Peter would have been glad for the intrusion. He might even have rushed to the door, completely unaware his hair was sticking up every which way and his pyjamas had The Avengers on them, thrown it open and launched himself into an exciting conversation.

This morning?

What came from his throat was another half-drowned groan.

“Peter! Gods above, come here.”

Blood rushed back into his legs as heat crept up his cheeks, a second wave of nausea turning his stomach in somersaults. He felt his body being tipped up, head lolling back against something hard. Not a body, there was no scratch of tell-tale fabric against his head. It was smooth, decisively still, and perfectly cold. The wall.

He sighed out, letting his shoulders roll down, the blanket half dropping off his side.

“You’re boiling up, I’m going to call Bruce.”

At last feeling relaxed enough to open his eyes, confident he would not immediately stumble and retch on the shoes of his saviour, Peter was assaulted by light. Glaring, blinding, fiery light that imprinted tiny clusters of even tinier glowing polka dots on the back of his eyelids.

Blinking them away, taking his time, Peter was greeted by the sheen of clear tights, and the type of shoes his aunt would have smirked at, impressed, and called ‘sensible heels’.

Pepper.

"G' morning…" Peter slurred, letting his eyes droop back closed. Pepper was smart. Pepper would take care of him. She had promised to call Bruce, too.

Which, clearly, in between him groaning and feeling sorry for himself on the bathroom floor and slurring and feeling slightly less sorry for himself against the bathroom wall, she had done.

He came the same way Pepper had, with a call of his name, and a frown he could all but hear from where he was slumped.

Whilst Bruce stood around, not doing much of anything. He may have begun to talk; Peter did not have the energy to spare to listen when he wasn’t being spoken to specifically. He was saving himself for… something. He wasn’t sure what, quite yet, but he just knew. Maybe it was his fever talking. Maybe it was his spider-sense. The two had become dangerously intertwined.

"You okay, kid?"

Heat clasped against his face, and before Peter could weasel himself away, stumble in the other direction, or curl himself over the toilet, the thousands of tiny dots burned into his retina were replaced by one flaming ball of fire.

And then it was gone.

He slumped back down, defeated and much too warm all over again.

Although he was very aware Bruce was talking to him _specifically_ now, Peter had no idea what he was saying. He almost didn’t want to. He was… tired. He’d slept all night and considering his lack of alarm clock he'd probably slept all morning too, but, being honest, he wasn't just tired. He was completely exhausted. The wall was cold anyway, and in all technicalities, he did have a bedsheet. Maybe now wasn’t so bad a time to rest, while Pepper sorted everything out…

Peter shot up like a bullet from a gun. Momentarily, he was disorientated. Which way was up, where exactly he was and whatnot? He wasn’t where he’d conveniently found himself drifting off. No, by the glowing eyes of the Iron Man poster staring him down, he’d been moved back into his bed.

He was glad, in all honesty. Later Mr Stark would tease him about it, and he’d protest vehemently that he could have walked, but for now, he let himself enjoy the dull ache of his bones and the quiet throbbing of his brain against his skull. It was still unpleasant, that much should be obvious, but whatever medicine Bruce had concocted and forced down his throat (because of course there had been medication. A taste of something lingered in Peter’s mouth, and he was fairly sure it wasn’t poison) was working wonders.

Absently, Peter let his mind wander to how Bruce accounted for his enhancements in the dosage. How fast would they wear off considering his metabolism? Dwelling on it turned absent throbbing into a thrumming marching band, and he shifted his head back to the poster on the opposite wall.

Had Mr Stark visited him? The likely truth was deflating to his ego, so he pushed it aside, shifting further left, towards the clock.

It blinked back at him much too bright and cheery. He forced the cough and the gag down, narrowing his eyes. Twelve nineteen. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting.

“Mr Parker, Ned Leeds and Michelle Jones have entered the building. They are common guests of yours, would you like to send them a message?” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice was just as bubbly and obnoxious as the clock.

Did she understand sickness?

She must not, Peter thought bitterly, she was talking in her usual volume and she’d offered to invite his friends over.

“Mr Parker, the two guests have made their way up to Level nine and are currently being shown around the new _‘History of Iron Man’_ exhibit.”

At that, Peter was unable to hold back: the itch his throat exploded into a series of short, sharp coughs.

It made more sense now, of course, as Peter sat himself up. F.R.I.D.A.Y. was not completely socially inept; she just had no control over Mr Stark and his antics. Peter could imagine it all now.

_Ned buzzing about skipping class._

_MJ as cool as ice_ , _claiming to only tag along under the guise that Peter might be in crisis, and she would get to draw him._

_Mr Stark prowling the hallways of his lower labs, avoiding Pepper and searching for Bruce, before coming across the unsuspecting and familiar teens._

And then?

_Then the eccentric man whisking them away for a private tour of his new exhibit._

Pepper called it narcissistic, always shaking her head and tutting quietly when it was mentioned. Bruce had much too many other things on his mind than some museum on level nine.

Peter had never been.

No matter which way, Ned would be close to imploding from excitement. MJ would be nonchalant about the whole affair but might feign interest in favour for a few exclusive quotes to put in her news column.

Peter sighed, swallowing down another cough that threatened to spill. He would have to go and save them. They would find their way to his room eventually, with or without his help.

Clenching his toes, if only to childishly check they all still worked, Peter slid his legs off the side of the bed, learning from his previous mistakes and not letting them stay tangled up in the sheets.

Pushing himself up was the hardest part, to Peter's pleasant surprise. Once he was standing and had taken a pre-emptive step along the side of the bed, he was quite confident he'd make it to the elevator and back. Bruce had worked an almost perfect miracle on him. Almost (honestly, he could still feel the little marching band who had taken up residence at the back of his head, but that only meant he probably wouldn’t be able to do maths, not that he couldn't walk).

Walking was the easier part, as Peter had quickly learnt, and it took him no time at all to be padding out of his room and down the hallway. The floor was hard and icy against his feet. The whole place so light and open, that once the elevator doors had slid closed behind him, Peter was thankful for the minute to rest his eyes.

It was a quick minute, though, Peter mused. Mr Stark was not one ever known for his patience, and it showed.

“Level nine, Mr Parker.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. with a happy, distinctly electronic chirp.

Not particularly having the energy to reply, Peter simply mustered up a soft smile for the AI’s cameras and kept walking. He wasn’t familiar with the layout of the floor before the renovations, and now? Peter was quite lost as he traipsed up and down the glass cases of blueprints and old arc reactors and decommissioned suits.

He hadn’t even known Mr Stark had kept all this stuff, he mused.

“Mr Parker!”

Peter’s head shot up.

Which, in hindsight was probably a bad idea. Pressure built behind his eyes, and suddenly he was swimming again, legs shaking and threatening to give way and maybe that was his school’s Decathlon Team standing on the ceiling.

Peter blinked. Once, twice, thrice, toes curling into the pads of his feet as he swallowed down whatever he felt rising in his throat. Whether it be a cough or something more dreaded, it did not need to make an appearance right this second.

With half his brain occupied with the violent twisting of his guts, and the other half scarcely functioning, by the time Peter had processed that, no, his Decathlon Team was not standing on the ceiling, and yes, they were, in fact, real and looking at him in his Avengers pyjamas, he still hadn't gotten any further in _what to do about it_ other than staring at them all in what he assumed was a form of bewildered fascination.

“Mr Parker - “

“Peter Parker - “

“Peter!”

“Puny Parker?”

Of course, out of varying calls of his name, the one that won out in sheer volume _and_ mystification, was none other than Flash Thompson himself. If there was anyone Peter would have asked to specifically not meet on his sick day, it probably would have been him.

“What are you even doing here? Looking- Looking like _that_?" Flash had continued, when it was clear that everyone, even the buffering Peter Parker, was waiting for him to speak. His antics were as well-known as his dislike for the scrawny kid, and, even outside the four walls of a classroom, Flash was just as ready to sneer at him as always.

The only positive? It spurred Peter into action.

“I have an internship.”

Well. He had _tried_. He did have the flu, as it turned out, and his brain was not ready to dance around Flash’s blunt logic with a pretty lie about how he’d ended up in the middle of a Stark Industries museum in his Avengers pyjamas in the middle of the afternoon.

“Cut it, Parker. They let you into the medical bay and you snuck off.” Flash stated his opinion as fact. He always had and he probably always would. He was confident, clearly, but he was rubbing Peter’s nose in it, and he was slowly but surely undoing peter’s chances at convincing the teachers that he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Always the charity case.”

Peter flinched.

“I - “ He felt like sobbing. Maybe punching something. Maybe throwing up. Probably all three.

Flash scoffed. He looked the furthest thing from impressed. Peter's eyes flickered to the teacher and back. They wore the expression like they were one and the same, landing somewhere between self-righteous and passively angry.

Flash made a much less passive and a much more aggressive step towards Peter, “Huh?”

“Too stupid for words now, Penis Parker?” He taunted.

Peter swallowed. His mouth was a desert, but his eyes were an ocean.

“You going to answer me?”

And the tide was growing, growing, growing.

“Leave him alone, Flash.”

The waves were building, building, building.

“All I want to know is why Puny Parker is a liar.”

And eventually, they would crash, crash, crash.

Peter braced himself, eyes clenched shut, arms wrapped around his middle, marching band doubled in size and pressing against his forehead.

_“What did you just say?”_

Relief.

The tension rolled off Peter’s shoulders, so much more sudden yet so much more welcome than the tears.

An arm, gentle around his shoulders, yet still holding him firm, kept him upright as his muscles went to jelly, knees locking to keep what was left of his dignity together.

It was like being pressed against that bathroom wall again, voices all around him, no two noises fitting together to make words, let alone sentences. His head was dropped to the side, resting, one half of him pressed against a silken fabric, keeping him from shivering away the last of his strength. The closest voice was the only one intelligible. The words filled him with so many emotions he hadn’t been able to fathom for Bruce that morning, now puzzled together by his brain in the voice of Mr Stark. Three simple words.

“You okay, kid?”

_He was now._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I’ve never posted anything here on Ao3, and this is a re-write of my 2017 Sick Day, Trip Day fic over on Wattpad. Drop a kudos if you liked it!


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